


Castaway

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-15 03:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel were best friends, living together in the Caribbean islands - an idyllic life, until a sudden storm swept Dean and all of his family away from Castiel, far too soon.<br/>Now, seventeen years later, Castiel is all grown up and determined to prove himself worthy of his new promotion: captain of a ship in the English Navy. His first mission is to find and capture the ship with black sails that's spearheading the piracy in Caribbean waters. However, once he does find the ship, he's going to be in for a surprise - in the shape of an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was based on the art of the amazing [shoutitdown](http://shoutitdown.tumblr.com) on tumblr. you can find the art [here](http://shoutitdown.tumblr.com/post/135592173067/piratesau-so-the-impala-is-cursed-because-of-the)! thank you, Marie, for being such a fantastic artist, and for bringing so much happiness with your amazing work.

> The sea is never still.  
>  It pounds on the shore  
>  Restless as a young heart,  
>  Hunting.
> 
>                                                       - Carl Sandburg,  _Young Sea_  
> 

 

High up on the cliffs, bathed in the soft, yellowy evening light, Dean held Castiel’s hand. The wind was blowing in from the sea, which soughed and sighed dizzyingly far down below. The sun was setting, painting a swathe of the sky pink and leaving coral splashes on the crests of the faraway waves; the very air itself seemed softly blushed, and anyone outside saw the world through a rosy tint - a wistfulness, come early.

The boys stood near the sudden drop, young fingers twisted together, palms pressed so that the lines on them, dirt ingrained, moved over each other like maps, like star charts.

_ Hush, hush, hush, _  said the sea.

“Bet I can get closer to the edge,” said Dean to Castiel. Castiel looked at him, and squeezed Dean’s hand tighter.

“Don’t,” he said. “If you go, I have to come too.”

Dean grinned, his freckled cheeks dimpling. He was slightly taller than Castiel, though his loose posture compared to Castiel's ramrod-straight back usually meant that he looked the shorter.

The wind changed suddenly, as it was wont to do on the island that was their home. It blew up against their backs, a sudden gust that was at least half salt, almost solid enough to push them forwards. The sea down below hushed and sighed and gushed, a tide that rolled back and out, and then rolled around again. Dean’s hand was dry and warm in Castiel’s; his salt-stained blue shirt was shuddering like a flag in the breeze. Castiel tugged at his own clothes with his free hand. They were new on him, but not unworn; and they were dirty, not worn thin with scrubbing.

Castiel breathed out. He felt so aware of everything around him - the scent of sea and grass, the burn of his legs and arms after swimming all day, the way his cheeks were pinched up from smiling so much, morning til dusk. He looked at Dean, and couldn’t help smiling again.

“There’s a ship!” Dean said, pointing out over the waves. Castiel squinted in the direction he was pointing, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun. There, a tall mast on the horizon, far, far away from the shore. 

Castiel watched it, a sing of longing in his blood. The ship was proud and strong against the skyline.

“One day, I’ll sail my own ship,” he said. He couldn’t imagine anything better - the wheel under his hand, the open sea all his to explore. No one telling him what to do or where to go or how to live.

“Me too!” said Dean. Castiel looked back over at him and grinned. He was never sure whether Dean agreed with him like that because he felt it too - that call of the sea, of freedom - or just because he wanted them to be the same.

“You mean it?” he asked. Dean frowned at him, the light still in his eyes.

“‘Course,” he said. He lifted up their hands. “If you go, I come too. Right?”

Castiel stared at him for a brief second, blinking, before his face relaxed into a smile. Dean laughed.

“You always make that face,” he said, imitating it exaggeratedly: a look of shock, mouth open. “Cas, I told you already, remember? We're together for always. You just don't believe me.”

He said the words so easily, like it would be easy to never split apart. Dean had no idea, Castiel thought. He trusted in their future. He trusted in  _ them,  _ in Castiel, in himself.

Perhaps, up here on the cliff in the sunlight, washed in the scent of the sea, Castiel could trust in them, too.

“I do believe it,” he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Believing in anything at all was too dangerous; if anyone should know that, it was him. He shifted, and looked up at Dean, not sure how to swallow his words back down when they were already spoken.

“No, you don’t,” Dean said. He didn’t let go of Castiel’s hand. “You’ll believe it... when it happens. I just know it, Cas. We’ll be together for always.”

The seabreeze ruffled the grass on the cliff. From behind the two boys, there was the sudden sound of high-pitched laughter, and they turned around to see a chubby little long-haired child come leaping towards them.

“Sammy!” Dean grinned and squeezed Castiel’s hand, before letting go and stooping down to scoop up his little brother in his arms. Dean wasn’t so tall, but he was strong and sinewy like his father the sailor. Sam giggled happily in his arms, one hand fisted in Dean’s shirt, the other reaching out for Castiel. “You and me and Sam,” Dean said, as Castiel put his little finger into Sam’s outstretched palm. Sam tightened his grip, beaming. “And Mom, and Dad. We’ll all be together.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. He wished he didn’t want to mean it; he wished he didn’t care. He put his thumb over the top of Sam’s small, pudgy fingers. They felt smooth and clean as the skin of fresh peas. Dean blew his lips against Sam’s cheek, making his little brother laugh. 

“Boys, be careful!”

Castiel turned, and there was Mary in her white dress that billowed in the breeze, her salt-curls wrapping and unwrapping her shoulders. She was smiling, one hand raised to hold the hat on her head; Castiel led their little group away from the cliff’s edge back towards her.

“Sorry, Mrs Winchester,” Castiel said, when they were close enough to be within earshot.

“Don’t you apologise, Castiel,” Mary said. “Not unless you can tell me truthfully that it was your idea to go up there, and not Dean’s.”

“I…” Castiel said, and glanced back at Dean. Dean, busy making faces at Sam and giggling, wasn’t listening. “I…”

“It’s alright, Castiel, I’m not angry. Just try to keep Dean in check for two minutes strung together sometimes?” Her cheeks were rosy, a few curls wispy around her face. She was all bright eyes and beauty and warmth, and it made Castiel’s heart ache in his tiny chest.

“Yes, Mrs Winchester.”

She pulled him into a hug.

"How's my Blue," she said, holding him tight. "How's my little Captain Blue?"

"M'good," Castiel said, hugging her back. "I mean, I'm well."

Her dress smelled like the sea and the grass and the lye soap she used to scrub. It felt scratchy against his cheek. When Castiel felt a heavy weight behind him, he knew that Dean and Sam had been caught in Mary's arms, too; he rested between them all, eyes closed, scrunched up against the fabric of that dress. It had roses on it; he didn’t have to have his eyes open to know. He’d seen her wear it a thousand times.

“It’s late,” said Mary, her hand coming to rest on his head. No one else touched Castiel that way - long fingers pushing back his hair, as though the locks weren’t thick with salt from swimming in the sea, as though he didn’t smell of seaweed and wet sand; as though she cared about him. “It’s late, Castiel. Shouldn’t you go home before lights out?”

Castiel brought up his hands and gathered her rose dress into his fists, holding onto her just like Sam held onto Dean. She let him, her hands gently stroking his hair. Behind them, Dean and Sam were quiet. He could feel Dean resting on his shoulder, and Sam playing with a loose thread in his shirt.

“Can’t he stay tonight, Mom?” Castiel eventually heard Dean mutter, his breath warm against Castiel’s shoulder blade. Mary’s hand didn’t pause.

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” she said. “We have to go round to the harbour tonight to meet John.”

Castiel swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. He understood. He play-acted at being a part of this family, but he wasn’t. Not really.

Dean’s hand reached forwards and found his. Castiel gripped it tight.

“Mom,” Dean said. “Tell him the thing.”

“Now? It’s not for certain, Dean…”

“You should tell him now,” Dean said firmly. “He needs it now.”

Castiel wanted to pull away and look up at Mary to try to read what was happening on her face, but his eyes were full and he was afraid that he’d upset her if she saw him cry, so instead he stood still and quiet with his face buried in her dress. Mary’s hand stopped stroking his hair, but she didn’t let go of him.

“Castiel,” she said. “We don’t know whether it will work out, so… don’t get your hopes up.” She waited for him to say something; Castiel didn’t understand, so he only nodded into her dress. He felt her draw in a breath. “I’ve been writing to the orphanage, Castiel. They’re slow to answer me, but it’s possible that they will let us adopt.”

Castiel did push away from her, then, his shock making his skin suddenly untouchable.

“Castiel?”

He took a step back, knocking into Dean and Sam, his eyes wide. 

“Castiel.” Mary knelt down, so that her face was below his. She was very close, and her hair smelled like soap, too. “Do you understand what I said?”

Castiel couldn’t speak. He could feel the sky doing somersaults around the spit of land where they were standing. His breath was a saw of salt over his throat. Was it possible - was it possible that he might not have to live forever in the orphanage? Was it possible that he could live with Mary, with Sam - with Dean…

“Castiel? Did I do the wrong thing?” Mary’s hand came up and brushed his cheek. She looked terribly worried.

“You… y-you…” he stammered. “You would let me into your family?” 

Mary’s blue eyes were soft and filling up with tears.

“I can’t keep sending you back to that place,” she said. “I can’t, not if I can help it. You belong with us, Castiel.”

“I - Mrs Winchester, I don’t… you don’t have to…”

Dean had set Sam down, and now he came forwards with his hands buried in his pockets, grinning. He shrugged his thin shoulders.

“Why not?” he said. “I told you. We’re for always. You and me and Sam and Mom and Dad.”

His green eyes were bright and full of hope, full of trust in the future. Castiel could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

“I’ll be good,” he promised in a low whisper, looking back to Mary. “I’ll be good. I’ll make your family proud.”

“Our family,” Dean corrected easily. Mary reached forward and pulled him into another embrace, resting her chin on his shoulder. Castiel felt a tear escape down his cheek. Dean reached out and brushed it away with his thumb, looking at the salt water curiously for a moment before rubbing it into his shirt.

“We’re picking up John tonight,” Mary said, pulling away, and smoothing Castiel’s hair with one hand. “We can tell him about it in the rowing boat on the way back to the bay. If the orphanage agrees, it shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks, Castiel.” He could hear the reservation in her voice, trying to protect him from disappointment, but it was too late; Castiel already had a hundred golden fantasies spinning around his head. Walking into the Winchester’s cottage, and thinking of it as his own home. Having his clothes scrubbed in lye. Waking up to Dean and Sam’s grins instead of a hundred other thin, hollow-eyed faces. Running down to the sea to greet John whenever he came home from his travels, and receiving a special gift all of his own. Being a part of their family - being a Winchester, truly.

He didn’t stop dreaming through his rushed goodbyes to Mary and Dean and Sam, nor on his run back to the orphanage over the grassy rolling land. He went to sleep that night filled with light, and he dreamt in soft yellow of embraces and laughter.

But he woke up to a different world. 

A storm had hit the island during the night, and whilst the inland buildings like the orphanage had been largely untouched - only washed clean in pelting rain - the harbour was damaged and there were hundreds of ships needing repairs. The Winchester rowing boat, the tiny  _ Impala,  _ was not among them. She was beyond the reach of repair: never seen again, and nor was any of her little family crew. They were lost to the sea - swallowed up by the waves. John, Mary, Sam, and Dean - all four.

Castiel did not leave the orphanage until he came of age at twenty-one. He never forgot Mary, whom he thought of as his mother. He never forgot Sam, his little brother. He never forgot Dean - his best friend, his steady strength, his beaming sunshine in a dark, dark world, snuffed out. He was plagued by nightmares of them all, lost to the sea, sinking down to the depths.

He never dreamed in yellow again.

*******

_ Seventeen Years Later _

Castiel stood neatly, with his feet together and his hands clasped behind his back, even though his shiny new blue jacket was tight and pinched at the shoulders. The room in which he stood was decorated with an ostentation that tried to be practical: the walls were papered with maps that were never used; the glass cabinets held relics and treasures that were not admired; the globe by the desk behind which the Admiral sat, and before which Castiel himself stood, was detailed, but covered in dust. The Admiral’s full name,  _ Naomi Tapping,  _ was etched into a plate at its base. Castiel looked down at the Admiral’s desk, and wondered if any of her pens even worked, or if they were all made of carved marble - as beautiful and unused as everything else in her office.

He dismissed the fancy, and tried to concentrate. The heat in the room was stifling.

“I hope I can count on you, Novak.” The only sounds in the room were the clipped tones of the Admiral, and the genteel swirling of her teaspoon in its china cup. Castiel watched as she stirred in two lumps of sugar, and then added another. “Novak?”

“Yes, Admiral Tapping,” Castiel hurried to reply, a few moments too late. He’d spent the whole day in a fog of disbelief; he'd tried to focus on small details to keep himself with at least the barest hold on reality. The shine on his ceremonial sword; the harsh melody of the annunciatory trumpets. The wobbling voice of the choleric, aged bureaucrat who had finally lavished upon Castiel that which he had been seeking for years and years: a captaincy. A  _ ship,  _ all of his own.

Admiral Tapping narrowed her eyes at him.

“I hope so, Novak,” she said. She was sitting primly upright, but her eyes were filled with a calculation that wasn't quite so poised. “A career such as this is a great privilege. I would hate to be proven wrong in trusting a person of your origins.”

Castiel did not duck his head; he only clenched his jaw, and frowned at the floor.

“I will endeavour to be worthy of your favours, Admiral,” he said. Maybe she noted insolence in his tone, or maybe it was only the warmth of the weather making her irritable; either way, the Admiral looked far from happy as she rose to her feet.

“I am entrusting you with this mission as a favour, indeed,” Admiral Tapping said, stepping out from behind her desk and walking over to a cabinet; from it, she removed a jotter, and she began flicking through its starchy pages.

“Admiral?” Castiel inquired, as politely and calmly as he could. 

Only a Captain for a single day, and already to be given his first mission on behalf of Queen and Country? Castiel lifted his chin proudly. 

Admiral Tapping sat down once more, frowning down at her book. She picked up a pen absently, and twirled it in one of her hands. It was a distinctive one: black, with a swirling ivory inlay in the shape of a tree. She looked up at him, her eyes weighted heavily.

“There is a ship, Novak,” she said. “A ship that has black sails, and which answers to no country, no laws.”

She did not blink.

“Pirates,” Castiel said.

Admiral Tapping stared at him for a long moment, striking the pen tip absently against the rim of her teacup.

“Pirates,” she agreed, finally. “Slavers, most likely. Aiding and abetting the black market trade in human beings.”

Castiel could not repress the shiver of revulsion that went down his spine. The Admiral noticed; Castiel saw her lips go thinner, and he resolved to show even less emotion in front of her in the future.

“Of course, the slave trade is utterly illegal and completely deplorable. As such, we are sending you to intercept this ship… these  _ pirates.   _ Bring them to justice. Use any means necessary. If the ship with black sails goes down, none will mourn her save her black-hearted crew. Do not be afraid to make use of the long nines, Captain Novak.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Castiel said seriously. A breach of the laws against the slave trade was a serious matter; this was no rusk on which to gently break his young Captain’s teeth. Piracy in the Caribbean waters was a menace to the English stronghold over the islands; the slave trade, illegal under English law, could serve no Englishman’s estate. Instead, all the slaves went to the owners of private land - mostly French and Portuguese lords. Their wealth and strength, coupled with increasing slave manpower, was unsettling the delicate balance of the Caribbean islands - destabilising the uneasy peace.

If this black-sailed pirate ship was a key figure in the illegal slave trade, Castiel’s first mission was a matter of peace or war, for the islands that were his home.

“Dismissed, Captain,” Admiral Tapping said curtly, taking a neat sip of her tea and then bending over her desk to read one of the neatly-ordered papers. Castiel dipped his head respectfully and made to leave - but at the door to her office, he couldn’t resist turning around and asking her one final question.

“Admiral,” he said, and she looked up at him, her expression not promising. Castiel cleared his throat and went on - in for a sixpence, in for a crown. “I only wanted to know why you have assigned this mission to me. It is of singular importance, and I recognise that. Would not one of the more experienced captains… ?”

“If you don’t believe you’re fit for the role, Captain Novak, I can easily demote you,” Admiral Tapping said brusquely.

“No, no,” Castiel hastened to say. “Forgive me, Admiral. I will take up no more of your time.”

He turned to leave - but at the last moment, she seemed to reconsider.

“It was not my decision to send you, Captain Novak,” she said. Castiel whipped his head around to listen, standing as neatly as he could. “It was my brother’s. He insists you have the necessary skills for the job. We do not want to send more than one ship.”

“If the pirate ship is so infamous, though -” Castiel pressed, and the Admiral’s face closed down.

“I need not discuss with you the ins and outs of our naval stratagems, Captain Novak,” she snapped. “My brother is adamant that you are capable; you would do well to be grateful to him.” With a sharp nod, she dismissed him.

Castiel left her office, his shiny new boots squeaking on the wooden floors. He closed her door behind him, and took a moment to let out a long, long exhale.

“Captain Novak!”

Castiel jerked his head up to see a tall, blond man approaching him, blue eyes like chips of ice. There was something in the way that he carried himself that reminded Castiel of the Admiral.

“Sir?” he said cautiously, noting the decorations on the man’s lapel.

“Bartholomew Harrington. Vice Admiral,” the man said. Castiel immediately stood up straighter, and quickly gave a neat salute.

“Sir,” he said again, more certainly this time. Harrington inclined his head, accepting Castiel’s deference as his due.

“Was my sister informing you of your mission?” he asked. 

"Yes, Sir."

"It's a good one, isn't it?"

He had a frank way of speaking that was charming, Castiel thought. One had the sense of authority, but not pretentiousness. Still, there was something about him that kept Castiel wary.

“Yes, Sir,” he said again.

"I asked my sister to send you particularly," the Vice-Admiral said. "I am a great believer in the aptitude of our young officers. We can't leave it all to the old hands, now, can we?" He clapped Castiel on the shoulder genially, the movement seeming a little awkward - almost rehearsed - but not entirely ungraceful.

So, this was the brother of which Admiral Tapping had spoken - the one who had insisted that Castiel was right for the job. His name was Harrington, though, which meant that Admiral Tapping had to be married - or else they were only half-siblings, or one of them had adopted an assumed name for use in the navy.

"Thank you, Sir," Castiel said out loud. "I'm grateful for the opportunity to prove myself."

“I hope you’ll make the best of it, Captain,” Harrington said. His medals were glinting on his chest - almost as many as his sister, the Admiral, had on her lapel. “I hope to be able to reward you generously on your successful return. I’ve heard great things from your immediate superiors.”

Castiel resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. Bartholomew was watching him in the same careful, calculating way as his sister had.

“Thank you for your faith in me, Sir,” Castiel said. Bartholomew nodded - briefly, and yet still with perfect courtesy.

“Don’t let me down, Captain,” he said. "On your way." Castiel bowed, and then began to walk away. He heard a knock on the door of the office he'd just left; Bartholomew must have been intending to visit his sister when he ran into Castiel. 

Castiel was still none the wiser as to why he’d been chosen for this mission. All he knew was that he finally,  _ finally  _ had a chance to make a real mark - to serve well, and be a good and worthy member of the Royal Navy.

He would not fail. The ship with black sails was as good as taken, already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on historical accuracy: there is none. This is intended to be more fantastical than historical!


	2. Chapter 2

> Once more on the deck I stand
> 
> Of my own swift-gliding craft:  
>  Set sail! farewell to the land!  
>  The gale follows fair abaft.  
>  We shoot through the sparkling foam  
>  Like an ocean-bird set free; -  
>  Like the ocean-bird, our home  
>  We'll find far out on the sea.  
>                                                           - Epes Sargent,  _A Life on the Ocean Wave_

 

“Heave, ho!” called a rough voice, and a huge net full of barrels was swung up from the quay and hoisted aboard ship.

Castiel watched approvingly as his crew landed the barrels neatly and immediately opened the net and began to roll them below decks. They were all wearing simple, loose shirts, and a couple went without shoes - Castiel would have to upbraid them later, since there were standards in the navy that had to be met, despite the heat. He couldn’t help envying them the coolness of their clothing, however; maybe when they were further from shore, he could relax the rules for everyone, including himself, and shed this too-tight ornamental jacket.

Then again, rules were there for a reason. Castiel didn’t want to be the victim of a mutiny on his first voyage as captain, only because he was dressed so informally that the crew didn’t even recognise him as captain in the first place.

“Sir, we’ll need your signature on the lists,” said a voice from behind him, and Castiel turned to see a short, weaselly man proffering some papers and a pen. “For the provisions.” He looked nervous to be around so many of the muscly, tattooed deck hands pacing the quay, helping to load the ship; Castiel offered him a thin, reassuring smile as he took the papers.

“You’re new to the job?” he asked, as he read them over. The provisions had been checked off by his quartermaster as they arrived; those barrels he’d just seen taken aboard had been the last of the food. Castiel scrawled his name at the bottom of the wrinkled, yellowy paper.

“Two days in, Sir,” the man stuttered, as Castiel flipped to a new leaf of paper. A crew hand roughly twice the little man’s size strode past him with a large wooden crate held in bulging arms, and he skittered out of the way, almost bumping into Castiel.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said to him absently, still reading. “Ship’s crews seem rough, but the navy is a place for people of honesty and integrity.” Castiel himself felt at ease among the burly hands; they had tanned skin and sinewed bodies and far-seeing, sea-faring eyes, and he was a part of them.

“They look likely to harm us, Sir,” said the little clerk, moving closer to Castiel as three hands nearby laughed loudly at some joke or prank. Castiel stared down at the clerk - at his thin, nervous hands twisting and untwisting. The clerk thought that Castiel was like him, Castiel realised. The clerk saw Castiel as belonging to _his_ world, the world of starched collars, and neat papers, and pomades and wigs and offices.

That was the last straw; the coat was coming off.

Shoving the signed papers back at the clerk, Castiel stripped away his coat and his necktie, pulling open the collar of his shirt. The clerk watched, scandalised, as Castiel rolled up his sleeves to reveal a blue-grey tattoo of an anchor on one arm, and a wings-spread seabird on the other.

“Back to your office, then,” Castiel said, exercising the tone of captain’s authority. “Unless you have any more little papers for me to sign?”

“None, Sir,” the clerk muttered, and scuttled off. Castiel grinned after him, and then heard someone step near. A pair of heavy boots, by the tread of them, with tacks in the left heel but not the right - the step not too long, but fast. He was already smiling and opening his arms as he turned around to greet his quartermaster.

“Hannah,” he said, holding his arms out for her inspection. “What do you think?”

Hannah, his trusted quartermaster, looked him over critically. She herself was wearing shined, heavy boots, dark trousers, a white shirt, and a heavily-brocaded waistcoat, and didn’t even look warm. Her messy brown hair was pinned back neatly, and she was every inch a controlled authority.

“You look like a cabin boy,” she said, her blue eyes narrowed just a touch. “Put the coat back on.”

“Hannah -”

“Put it on, Castiel. You’re a _captain_ now.” She offered him a rare smile, which he returned.

“But the clerk,” Castiel said, gesturing over his shoulder. “He thought I was some kind of pen-pushing office weed.”

Hannah sighed.

“Castiel, we see your tattoos, we see your muscles, you’re a sailor, you sail ships, you belong on the waves and not in an office, you’re very wild and free,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Now put your coat on before someone tries to make you swab the deck.”

Castiel sighed, and put the coat back on.

“Neck tie,” Hannah said sternly, and when Castiel awkwardly looped it to lie the wrong way around, she tutted and stepped forwards to set it right - but Castiel waved her away.

“Enough attention on my wardrobe,” he said. “Are the charts on board? My instruments?”

“Check for yourself,” Hannah advised, a little frostily after Castiel’s rejection of her help. “Speak to your first mate, she’s the one in charge of your personal belongings.”

“Is it… ?”

“Anna, per your request.”

Castiel nodded gratefully to Hannah, and took a step towards the gangplank that led from the quay up into the ship.

“I’ll be setting the course,” he said. “Meet me in my cabin in two hours, to get the heading.”

“Sir,” Hannah said respectfully. Castiel could tell from the way her eyes lingered about his neck that she was still bothered by his tie. He smiled to himself and turned away, putting her out of his mind.

He stepped over to the rough wooden gangplank, and set one foot on it. He couldn’t help pausing - taking a moment to look up at the ship in all her glory, masts shined to a gleam, sails neatly furled and tied, even the wooden balustrades along the top deck brilliantly lacquered. The _Aureola_ wasn’t the biggest ship in the navy, nor the fastest - but for now, she was Castiel’s to tend, to care for, to command. All her might would move and halt at his word. All her seaworthy strength was an extension of his own, and together they would hunt down the black-sailed ship. Together, they would be unstoppable.

“Need a hand up?” said a voice from above. Castiel narrowed his eyes at the speaker: a tall man with a wide grin and bright eyes, dressed in a coat to match Castiel’s.

“Balthazar,” Castiel greeted him, stepping up the gangplank and walking up it assuredly. When he reached the top and boarded the ship, Balthazar was holding out his hand to shake. “What are you doing here? Is the _Corona_ not big enough to hold your ego?”

“Well met,” said Balthazar, slapping Castiel on the back. “It’s pure curiosity. I want to see the ship that Captain Novak will be sailing out into pirate-infested waters, in a life-or-death race against the evil slavers.”

There was an edge to his voice, and Castiel’s face darkened.

“You wanted the mission,” he said. Balthazar lifted an affable shoulder.

“I asked the Vice-Admiral specifically,” he said. “I saw that ship you’re after off the coast of Port Elizabeth not two months ago, and she slipped past me. She’s cruelly fast, Castiel. I wanted her for my own.”

“This mission should have been yours, then,” Castiel said, frowning. “You have years more experience than I do. Truly, I am sorry that Vice-Admiral Harrington made this decision.”

Balthazar pulled him out of the way of some heavy-set hands headed back down the gangplank, and smiled.

“If it couldn’t be me, at least it’s you,” he said. “Imagine, it could have been Malachi. That man’s practically a pirate himself at this stage. The slavers wouldn’t have known whether to fire on him, or pour him a drink and play cards with him. At least I know you’ll do the job.”

“As best I can,” Castiel promised.

“Where are you looking to start the search?”

“The charts should be down in my cabin,” Castiel said. “Along with a list of the most recent sightings. I’ll be making an educated guess. You said Port Elizabeth?”

“Not for two months, though,” Balthazar cautioned. He sighed. “Well, it’s back to the _Corona_ for me. There’s some toff that needs transporting from one island to another.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Castiel said dryly, and Balthazar laughed.

“Whoever said the navy is no fun?” he replied, and headed back down the gangplank himself. Castiel leaned on the balustrade to watch him go, a sudden breeze ruffling his hair - a welcome one, since he’d had to put the coat back on. From up here, the movements on the quay seemed small and far away. And soon, it would all be miles behind him, when they were out at open sea.

“Sir?”

Castiel smiled to hear the voice of his first mate, and turned to see Anna Milton standing behind him, hands behind her back, clothes smart, boots shined. No wonder Hannah hadn’t made any complaint about Castiel’s specific request; Anna was the image of neatness. She’d been with him for the final few years of his rise through the naval ranks; she was older than Castiel, but hadn’t entered the navy until she was already twenty-one. She was always keen to learn, eager to catch up. As his first mate and particular apprentice on the ship, she was going to have to learn faster than ever.

“You look the part,” Castiel said aloud. Anna smiled proudly.

“So do you,” she said, looking at his coat. “Except your tie…”

“It’s Hannah’s doing,” Castiel said, brushing past her. “Are my things in the captain’s cabin?”

“Yes, Sir,” Anna said, and Castiel couldn’t help but feel a thrill. His belongings, his personal things, in the captain’s cabin. He’d really done it. He was _truly_ a captain.

“I’m going below decks to chart our course,” he said. “We’ve got several hours before the tide suits us. Do me a favour?”

“Name it, Captain,” Anna said. Castiel smiled at her.

“Get me some food from the nearest inn,” he said. “Actually, go to the Blackbird specifically. I want a decent last meal before it’s ship biscuit and suspicious stew.” He tossed Anna a coin. “Get something for yourself, too.”

Anna caught the coin effortlessly, and nodded sharply.

“Bring it to my cabin. Don’t be too long. I’ll show you the charts afterwards, and you can copy out the heading.”

“Sir.” She turned away smartly. Instead of walking the gangplank, she grabbed hold of the net that had held the barrels which had been swung aboard ship; with a laugh, the crew who had been about to throw the net over the side of the ship winched her up and over the balustrade, and down to the quay. Castiel smiled to himself, and then turned away and headed below deck to the cabins.

The corridors reeked of strong lacquer, newly reapplied to help the _Aureola_ remain seaworthy even in a heavy storm. There wasn’t much light to be had, but enough for Castiel to see his way past various cabins until he reached the end of the corridor - and found himself standing outside a wide, carved, dark wooden door. On a golden plate at eye-level was engraved a single word: _Captain._

Castiel stared at it for a moment. He felt somehow as though he should knock, although he knew the fancy was a foolish one.

He took a deep breath in, released it - and opened the door.

The cabin was wide and spacious and light, with big windows that looked out from the ship’s stern. There was a desk, wide and shiny and nailed to the floor; there were chairs, plush and cushioned; there was a globe of his own, there were pens in a pot, there was a partition that hid his bed. Castiel stood still in the doorway for far too long, staring around at the sumptuous surroundings. He’d never slept on his own, not within his memory. It had been the beds at the orphanage, and then it had been the dormitories of the navy training barracks, and then it had been the cabins he’d shared aboard ships - with progressively fewer and fewer people, as he rose through the ranks like a hot knife through butter.

And now, here he was. Luxury beyond anything he could have imagined, even when he was stuck inside the orphanage on rainy days, and he’d lost himself in his own head to escape the wailing and fighting of the other children. How he’d used to dream…

He stepped forwards into the room, and closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, letting himself have a quiet few seconds to reflect.

Yes, he’d dreamed of this so often, back then. But all the dreaming he’d done had stopped after he’d lost the Winchesters; his dreaminess… it had hardened into grey resolve. He’d seen only one way out of the hell he’d been living in - one way out of the dirt, and the smell, and the crying, and the fist-fights, and the hunger, and the rules… _always_ the rules. The only way to ever be free of it all after the Winchesters were gone was to set to open sea, he’d known that for sure. To do that, he’d need to be a captain. To be a captain, he’d need to get into the navy. To get into the navy, he’d need to be educated, and neat-looking, and eloquent. And so he’d grown up fast… perhaps a little too fast.

Castiel reached into his shirt and found the silver chain that hung beneath, long enough for the pendant to swing against his stomach, so that it could not be seen even when he opened his collar to work in the heat. He drew it out now - a tiny pendant, just a coin with a hole punched in it.

Castiel had visited the Winchester house only once after their deaths, and he’d left it too late, because the bailiffs had already been inside and taken everything: Sam’s crib and his sea-shell toys and his muslins that smelled of sweet milk and soap and Mary; Dean’s wooden ship that his father had carved him, and his scrolls of made-up words and strange games that he’d played with Castiel; Mary’s dresses, and the sprigs of drying herbs and flowers that she’d hung upside-down around the house to dry them.

The house had echoed like a tomb.

The single thing that Castiel had been able to find was this - just a coin, just metal. Not enough, not nearly enough, as cold against his hand when he’d first found it as the freezing waters that had stolen that family, _his_ family, away from him -

Castiel closed his palm over the coin, now, standing in the captain’s cabin. He had never let it go cold again; he kept it warm against his skin, never let the wind blow against it, never let the rain patter over it, never let the sea touch it, God, no, not even once. It was only a coin, but perhaps one of the Winchesters had touched it - held it in their hand, kept it in their pocket, jingling with others.

It had to be enough.

Castiel clenched his fist around it, tighter.

“I made it, Dean,” he murmured to it. “I made it. I’m a captain now.” He looked around the cabin once more, seeing it with the eyes of himself as a child, as the boy who’d been Dean’s best friend. “There are windows twice as big as we were. And pens, too! Not even quills, real fountain pens just like the Admiral had in her office. Not so fancy as hers, though. And there are charts on the desk…” He moved towards them, ruffled them through without really seeing them. “I’m going to decide where we’re going. I’m the one making the rules. I wish…” He felt his throat close, and shut his eyes briefly. “I wish you were here to see this." He took a deep breath. "I miss you, so much. I know I tell you every day, but today is different. You would have loved this.”

He opened his eyes, and looked up so that no tears would fall. _There’s enough salt in the sea already,_ Mary would always say, whenever Castiel had hurt himself playing on the shore. _No more tears, Captain Blue._

He looked to his left, and saw a mirror hanging on the wall; taking a step forwards, he caught sight of himself, dressed up clean and neat in his captain’s coat. He blinked at himself. He looked tall, and old, and confused. He drew himself up, and set his face.

“I’ll be good,” he murmured, a familiar farewell as he tucked the coin back under the necktie, under his shirt. “I’ll make your family proud.”

 _Our family,_ said Dean, in his mind. Castiel felt his determination flood back to him. He turned to the desk, and sat down, drawing charts and lists towards him. He would find out where the black-sailed ship was headed next - and then he would set his _Aureola_ towards it, and run it down.

*

“Sir?” Anna poked her head around the cabin door, a smudge of grease on her cheek. Castiel blinked up at her from his desk, his head swimming with numbers, locations, dates, times…

“Sir,” Anna said regretfully, “you forgot your food.”

Castiel looked to his left, and saw a plate of roasted meat and potatoes, vegetables piled high. He frowned at it.

“Did you bring this in?” he demanded.

“No,” Anna said, and Castiel could tell that she barely refrained from rolling her eyes. “I floated it in through the stern windows, Sir.”

“Careful,” Castiel said, feigning seriousness with near-perfect accuracy. “I could have you reported for witchcraft.”

Anna smiled at him and moved a little further into the room.

“You were deep in your books when I came in, Sir,” she said. “You barely seemed to notice me.”

“I was on the trail of the black-sailed ship,” Castiel said, picking up a map and waving it at her, a figure scrawled on the bottom catching his eye; he frowned at it, and then tried to refocus on Anna. “I have been plotting all the places it’s been seen, and then attempting to use mathematics to discover the most likely place it will next make berth.”

“About that, Sir,” Anna said tentatively. “Hannah’s up on deck. She sent me to say that the tide is right.”

“It is? Already? It’s only been half an hour, at most.”

“Three hours, Sir,” said Anna, not quite meekly, but her best impression of it.

“Three?” Castiel demanded.

“Yes, Sir. Do we… do we have a heading?” she asked, tentatively.

Castiel stood up abruptly. “We do,” he said decisively. “I’ll join you on deck momentarily. Please inform Hannah I will be with her shortly, and then come down here to make those copies until it’s time to cast off.”

“Sir,” Anna said smartly, and turned on her highly-polished heel.

Castiel looked down at the charts on the desk before him. They were a mess of arrows and numbers, crosses and crossings-out. There were a couple on the floor that he’d crumpled up in frustration; he picked them up and shoved them hastily into a drawer, so that Anna wouldn’t see them when she came to copy out the final heading.

He picked up the last piece of paper he’d been working on, his messy copy of the mathematical summations he’d made; he’d leave the neat one for Anna. He frowned at the mathematics. If he was honest, he had no idea whether this was right. The black-sailed ship had been seen all over the seas between here and Timbuktoo, and never twice in the same place. She was like a dark ghost, slipping in and out of sight in the heady, humid Caribbean nights. She was smoke, and Castiel’s was the hand that tried to catch her.

No. Not smoke, but steam - steam, that could be made to water, to ice, through science. That could be held, could be caught. Castiel had made his calculations as best he could. All there was to do now was follow them.

Casting a last regretful glance at his wasted lunch, Castiel left his cabin and began to climb his way up towards the decks. Outside, the sun was beaming down brighter than ever in the afternoon, the midday heat still spearing the tang of its blade through every indrawn breath of sultry air. Castiel felt sweat starting to bead on his forehead, and wished again that he could shuck the ridiculous coat.

He passed up through the quarterdeck and headed for the stern deck, the highest one, behind the mizzenmast. There, her hands on her hips, stood Hannah. She smiled to see him climbing the stairs, and Castiel nodded in friendly greeting.

“The tide is right,” Hannah said. “The ship is all but prepared. We have need only of a heading, Captain.” She was standing at the balustrade, looking down on the scurrying deck hands who went about their work loosening ropes and heaving weights and tying down guns, making sure the ship was completely ready to head out into open water.

Castiel moved to stand next to her, his hands gripping the piece of paper on which he had so carefully calculated the moves he would make.

“Captain?” Hannah said. Castiel opened his mouth, and then closed it. Somehow, the words that he needed to say wouldn’t quite come out. His attention was caught by the little wavelets lapping and shifting on the surface of the sea, far below; they were making a quiet sound that was just on the edge of Castiel’s hearing, so normal to him that he tuned it out to nothing, now. And yet -

For a second, Castiel could have sworn he heard a voice, or some meaning, in their ceaseless swish and drop, sway and rise. A quiet word - a single sound, repeated, something like - like a push, like a call, a call to - to the North…

“Castiel.” He felt a hand on his arm. “I know it’s a big day, but I need you to focus.”

Castiel frowned, and looked at her.

“Heading,” she said kindly, a reminder. He crumpled the paper he was holding in too-tight hands. There was a sudden, urgent need that he had - to go North, at once.

He looked down at the paper. _South-West,_ it said.

He gritted his teeth.

There was no reason to head North, but every one of his instincts wanted to. Suddenly, with a quiet intensity, he wanted to tell Hannah to point the ship North and let her fly. But he’d spent hours on this, he’d worked it all out. He’d come to the best possible mathematical conclusion…

But _North,_ insisted his gut, and the sea, and the rolling of the waves.

He opened his mouth.

“South-West,” he ground out.

At once, the pressure in his very bones eased off; the waves seemed to sigh, as though disappointed. He let out a sigh, and handed his paper to Hannah. “There. It’s South-West.”

Hannah read over his calculations with a sharp eye; Castiel didn’t know how much education she’d had and how much she understood, but she nodded smartly enough and turned away to speak to the helmsman standing behind them.

Castiel took the time to watch his crew some more. He was still a little giddy with the idea that they all answered to him. Every single body on this ship was his to command, save perhaps the rats. Maybe, if he played a sailor's flute sweetly enough, even they would fall into line.

Perhaps it was not the best idea for the captain of the ship to be serenading rodents in the bilge like a madman, however.

“We’re ready,” Hannah said, returning to stand next to him. “There’s not much wind, we can head off. Care to do the honours, Captain?”

Castiel met her eyes; she knew a little of what this meant to him. He nodded to her, and then stepped up to the very edge of the balustrade.

“On deck, all hands!” he bellowed, and the vague wanderings of his crew became a mad scramble to assemble in the order they were taught. Castiel eyed them, lining the quarterdeck, the gun deck, and the main deck. They looked neat enough; a fair few fresh faces, not many lined and experienced ones. Castiel couldn’t help but wonder at that, even if only for a moment. Castiel, the untried captain, with Hannah, the youngest quartermaster he knew, and a crew of youthful faces? Castiel shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. New blood had to rise through the ranks, after all.

“Firstly,” he shouted, “it has been noted that many of you are not wearing official navy uniforms! Shoes to be worn at all times, I hope I make myself clear!”

A few of the hands shifted uncomfortably. Castiel was suddenly glad of their youth; it made them that much easier to discipline. A grouchy old sailor was far less likely to take his irate orders to heart.

“Now! We go to search for a ship with black sails! A ship with a crew that is happy to deal in slaves, in other people’s lives! We set out today to stop this stain from spreading any farther; to dam at the source this river of evil!”

There were whoops and cheers from below.

“Poetic,” said Hannah next to him, and Castiel couldn’t tell if she was being dry, or begrudgingly admiring. Perhaps both.

“Now, WEIGH THE ANCHOR! LET DOWN THE SAILS! OUT TO SEA, AND TO VICTORY!”

The roar of approval was louder this time, and followed by immediate action as the bosun and the first mate started to call more detailed orders. Castiel did not step back from the balustrade, letting himself be seen by all; proving his authority, he hoped, with stern silence and a strong look out to sea.

When they had moved off, however, Castiel permitted himself to turn away and walk to the back of the stern deck, to look out over what they were leaving behind. Beyond the long quay that stretched out into deep water, there was the little port town - not so little as it had been when Castiel had been a child; definitely grown, but with more growing to do yet.

Castiel put a hand over his stomach, feeling the pendant coin through his shirt. This was the place he had known Dean, the place where they had played together, laughed together, promised to spend forever together. Castiel had left the island on a ship hundreds of times, now, but this one felt different. He could not explain why.

It seemed to have something to do with the quiet voice inside him that still whispered _North… North._

He turned his head away from the town, and out to sea. The sky above was clear and bright; the sea sparkled and shone. Castiel let out a breath, caught Hannah’s eye, and nodded determinedly.

They headed South-West.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think I am going to spend the whole of this fanfiction calling the stern deck 'the poop deck' then you are very much mistaken. I cannot take Castiel seriously while he is standing on the poop.


End file.
